


like a song i sing to myself

by FullmetalChords



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy Era, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Clothed Sex, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords
Summary: Dimitri cannot help but have mixed feelings about his birthday. Claude is here to help.Happy birthday, Dimitri!
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 296





	like a song i sing to myself

**Author's Note:**

> ofc I gave this fic a title from a Richard Siken poem, I'm a messy, dramatic gay
> 
> Tbh, I wasn't planning on writing something for Dimitri's birthday (I've got fics planned/half-written for Christmas and dimiclaude week as well and only so much time to work on them), but fomo is a powerful, powerful thing. Also, I wrote the sex scene in early October, so it was about time I shared that with the fandom, I guess.
> 
> I'm @apostaroni on twitter!

  
Dimitri is grateful for the lack of spectacle surrounding his eighteenth birthday.

His housemates surprise him with an impromptu celebration in their classroom that evening, once classes have ended and training halls have closed for the night. There is a platter of golden cookies Mercedes and Annette have made together, spiced with something that smells delicious even if Dimitri knows he will not be able to taste it. Ashe has brewed a pot of chamomile tea for them, Dimitri’s favorite, and there is a small pile of humble gifts, whetstones and new training weights and even, incredibly, a pair of beautiful leather riding boots that Dimitri had had his eye on in the market stalls just the other day.

“Ah, what fun’s a birthday if I don’t get to spoil you, Your Highness?” Sylvain teases, once Dimitri protests their expense. He ruffles Dimitri’s hair then, like he used to when they were young. “You only turn eighteen once, you know.”

Dimitri smiles to himself, biting into one of the crisp cookies.

“Indeed.”

By any law in Fodlan, he is considered an adult today. In Faerghus, Dimitri has been considered such since the age of fifteen when he drew first blood in battle; the house of Blaiddyd considered him grown at the age of fourteen when he had stood in his family’s chapel before the Crown’s closest advisors and recited a prayer of praise and devotion to the Goddess, as is expected of any future ruler of the Holy Kingdom. But now… now that he is eighteen, the age of majority for the rest of Fodlan, he can safely take the throne without fearing protests against a child ruling Faerghus.

He will be crowned king by this time next year, Dimitri realizes with a sudden jolt. It is inevitable — he will graduate from Garreg Mach a mere three months from now, removing the last obstacle between him and his obligations. He will be able to put it off no longer. And once he is king, weighted down by the demands and responsibilities of ruling an entire country, how will he ever have the time to find out the truth of what happened in Duscur? How will he ever have the chance to pursue what is important to him, and not what is important to his people?

“Your Highness?” Dimitri is interrupted from his thoughts by Ingrid’s voice at his shoulder. “You look troubled.”

“Ah…” Dimitri smiles at her, even as he unconsciously bristles at the way his longtime friend addresses him. “It is nothing. I was simply… lost in thought.”

And he truly does try to put his worries from his mind, to enjoy the evening with his dear friends. It is a pleasant evening, with Annette having put together a few games for them and Dedue having found a way to make a batch of his favorite sweet buns with jam. This night, of all nights, has no place for Dimitri’s ghosts, nor his dread of the future.

And yet, the thought plagues Dimitri. The thought that this might truly be the last birthday he gets to spend like this, among only close friends, without the trappings of the throne demanding a more stately celebration. Balls that last late into the night. Feasts attended by dignitaries he hardly knows. None of the peace and rejuvenation that he feels when surrounded by friends.

This unpleasant premonition is only reinforced by the way his friends address him. “Your Highness,” they say, to the last — all save Felix, who says “Happy birthday, boar,” without a hint of his usual venom or snarl, and Mercedes, the only person at Garreg Mach who ever uses Dimitri’s name in the first place. “Highness,” as though Dimitri is so far above them that none of them will ever be able to reach him.

It is a necessary burden of the one who wears the crown of Faerghus… but at this moment, Dimitri cannot stand it.

The party wraps up before curfew, with Dimitri’s friends offering him bows and (from a few) embraces before the eight of them part ways for the night. Felix and Sylvain’s rooms flank Dimitri’s own, and he bids the pair of them good night before entering his bedroom door, resigning himself to a night of restless sleep.

Or at least he would, were there not someone already sitting on his bed.

Claude has made himself comfortable on Dimitri’s bed, his outer jacket and boots shed as he sits with his back against the wall, thumbing idly through one of the training manuals Dimitri keeps in a neat stack on his desk. At the sound of the door opening, he looks up, grinning once he sees who it is.

“You’ve got to get some better reading material in here,” he tells Dimitri, shutting the manual on lance maintenance and waving it before him. “I was getting bored, waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri says reflexively, even as Claude gets up from the bed, all fluid and sinew, and crosses the room to embrace him. “I did not realize you would be in here.”

Claude pulls back to grin at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be in here? You really think I’d stay away on your birthday, of all days?”

He doesn’t pull away, moving his hands to rest just above the divot of Dimitri’s hips, his thumbs caressing him. Dimitri drapes his arms over Claude’s shoulders, resting his forehead against Claude’s, and exhales.

Claude holds on. “Long day?”

“Mm.” He breathes deeply, catching Claude’s scent. “I’m tired.”

He and Claude have grown close, these past few months — closer than Dimitri would have anticipated on their first meeting. Closer, perhaps, than he is meant to be with someone who has his own responsibilities, his own territory, to rule one day. It had begun almost by accident: an initial fascination, cordial meetings over tea, fingers brushing as they reached for the same tea biscuit.

They are an open secret among their friends; most of the Blue Lions and Golden Deer know, though he and Claude have resisted, thus far, putting a real label on what they are to each other. What they truly are, Dimitri cannot help but think on his more depressing days, is a political nightmare in the making, bringing him fear that if this can continue beyond the academy, one or both of them will have to sacrifice everything they’ve worked so hard for. 

But he cannot think of that today, right now, with Claude holding him. All he can think of is how glad he is to see him.

“Tired, huh?” Claude pulls back, giving Dimitri a suggestive grin. “Think I might know how to help with that.”

Dimitri cannot help but smile slightly, already anticipating Claude’s mouth on his, his fingers finding a way to soothe his current stress.

But instead, Claude pulls back, ducking under Dimitri’s bed to pull out a small gift. Brown, fuzzy, with a blue bow tied around its neck.

“Ta-da!” Claude looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You can cuddle with this! When I’m not around!”

He shoves his present into Dimitri’s hands, and he takes it under the arms, blinking in surprise. 

“Uh…”

It’s a stuffed animal, a brown bear wearing a one-shouldered tunic of some kind. Its glass eyes look up at Dimitri innocuously, and he cannot help but make a face.

“A Nader bear!” Claude grins at him proudly. “They’re becoming all the rage back home. Saw it and thought of you— ah,” he says suddenly, his smile slipping, “but you don’t like it, do you?”

Dimitri hadn’t been about to say so — Claude’s gift may be pointless, but Dimitri still has manners. Still, now that he’s been caught, he may as well admit it. 

“No,” he admits. “I tend to prefer gifts that are more… practical. But,” he attempts, holding the bear higher, “thank you for thinking of me. It’s, ah… kind of you.”

Claude’s expression has turned into a full pout, and he gently pries the bear from Dimitri’s hands.

“Aw, Dimitri,” he says, and holds the bear up in front of his face. “How can you hate this lil face, huh? Na-bear came all this way just for you…”

He raises the bear’s paw to tickle Dimitri’s cheek, grinning at him cheekily as he does so. Dimitri gives an impatient, but good-natured, grumble before swatting the bear away, catching Claude around the waist so he can pull him close once more. 

“I will learn to like it,” he concedes, while Claude laughs and lets the bear tumble from his hands onto the ground. “Thank you for the gift, Claude.”

“Ah, no big deal.” Claude touches Dimitri’s face, soothing the same spot he’d just tickled with the stuffed animal. “But I guess I should make up for getting you a crappy present, huh?”

He kisses Dimitri lightly, then again, light pecks meant to tantalize Dimitri. And it works as well as it always does, with Dimitri leaning down to catch Claude’s mouth with his, walking back so they can tumble onto his narrow bed, Claude moving beneath him.

Dimitri had been so afraid, the first time they’d done this. Afraid of his emotions or strength getting the better of him, of hurting someone he cared about so deeply. But they’ve had plenty of practice now, enough experience with how lovely this can be with the right person. And Claude trusting him, letting Dimitri use him… It’s a heady responsibility, and Dimitri is honored that Claude allows Dimitri to take care of him in the most intimate of moments. 

“Mmm…” Claude moans into Dimitri’s mouth, arching against his weight. “Dimi…”

Dimitri can’t help but grimace into the kiss at the nickname, and Claude notices, pulling back.

“Ah… sorry.” He gives Dimitri a sheepish grin. “I keep forgetting you’re not much of a nicknames guy.”

“It isn’t that.” Really, it’s preferable to any of the absurd monikers Claude has stuck him with before. “It simply… sounds strange. It’s not a name one would encounter in Faerghus.”

“Oh?” Claude’s eyes light up with genuine curiosity. “What would they call you in Faerghus, then?”

In Faerghus they call Dimitri “His Highness,” or “the prince,” or “our nation’s last hope”. In Faerghus Dimitri has to fight to be called by his name at all. Even here, in the relative ground of Garreg Mach, he can count the number of people who call him by his name on one hand. 

But still, the question tugs at him. He cannot help but recall, from a lifetime ago, a gentle hand atop his head, the timbre of his father’s voice as he smiled down at him. 

“Dima.” The name is practically a whisper; a memory from long ago. “Call me Dima.”

“Dima?” 

Something about the way Claude says his name gets Dimitri right where he lives, somewhere deep in his core, and he shivers involuntarily. Claude notices; Dimitri feels his fingers comb delicately over his scalp, pushing cornsilk hair out of his eyes. 

“Dima,” Claude says again, tender, almost delicate. The corner of his mouth quirks upward in a sweet smile. “You like hearing me call you that, don’t you?” 

Dimitri inhales voluntarily at the ache he feels in his chest. The name his father and lost friends used to use… The name even Felix used to use when they were children, before their lives became so complicated. Hearing it aloud said once more by someone who cares for him has a more potent effect than he’d bargained for. He pulls Claude closer, slotting their legs together, one hand splayed possessively across Claude’s lower back. 

“Yes,” he admits. He nips at Claude’s exposed throat, hearing him sigh. “Again. Please.”

“Dima.” He feels the way Claude’s throat vibrates as he says his name once more, hears the intoxicating way Claude’s breath hitches between syllables as Dimitri scrapes skin gently with his teeth. His dick twitches against Claude’s thigh, and Claude responds in kind, rolling his hips against Dimitri’s while repeating his name like a mantra. 

“Heh, Dima…” Claude tilts his head to give Dimitri a lazy, open-mouthed kiss. “Want me to suck you off?”

Dimitri gets caught up for a moment in Claude’s kisses, at the way his fingers play at the waistband of his pants. And as much as his mind goes hazy with memories and fantasies of that hot mouth on his cock, Claude’s head bobbing as he looks up at him with those hooded green eyes… He wants something else.

He snags Claude’s hand, dragging it up his torso, beneath his shirt, so he can feel Claude’s skin on his. He can hear his own heartbeat.

“Mm.” He shakes his head. “For now, keep kissing me.”

Claude seems only too happy to oblige, leaning up to capture Dimitri’s lips and tongue with his own, all while Dimitri’s mind works. What he really wants — what he’s afraid to articulate, for fear of being laughed at — is to hear Claude keep repeating his name. No, more than that… He wants Claude to lose all his pretty words until Dimitri and his name are all that are left on his lips. He isn’t sure he knows how to make this a reality, but right now he needs it, more desperately than he can ever remember needing anything. 

He inches his hand further down Claude’s body, kneading the firm flesh of his ass for a moment before dipping his fingertips inside Claude’s waistband. He tugs, somewhat fruitlessly, at the material until Claude lifts his hips, a wordless assent to what Dimitri is planning. He slips Claude’s pants down over his hips, past his ass, reaches inside his smallclothes to pull out his erection.

“Gods,” he hears Claude gasp as Dimitri takes hold of him, smearing the precome around the head of his cock, “goddess, Dima—” He lets out a stuttered moan, his face dropping to Dimitri’s shoulder, murmuring Dimitri’s name again in between mindless praises.

The way Claude sounds moaning his name like that… it has Dimitri feeling overwhelmed, aroused, but it isn’t enough yet. It won’t be enough until Claude’s forgotten everything but Dimitri’s name. 

“Say it,” Dimitri hisses, feeling more than slightly dazed. “Say my name again.”

Claude laughs, breathless. “Bossy, aren’t you, Dima? I should’ve guessed—” 

He cuts himself off with a moan; Dimitri has pushed Claude’s tunic up, exposing his chest so Dimitri can more freely access Claude’s nipples. He knows how sensitive his partner is here, and he tweaks one with his thumb and forefinger, making Claude nearly scream, bucking underneath Dimitri and swearing in a language he doesn’t recognize. 

“Dima,” he gasps, “Dima, _fuck_ …”

Dimitri licks his lips, trembling at the wealth of flesh beneath him, the way Claude fills his hands. Reaches, with some desperation, for his own belt, undoing it with one hand while he continues to lazily jerk Claude off. With shaking hands, Claude helps Dimitri slip his own trousers barely past his ass, his cock coming free to leave a sticky trail of precome on Claude’s lower stomach.

“Show me you want me.” The huskiness of his own voice surprises him, as does the desperation of his words. 

“You already know I do,” Claude pants. His fingers dig into Dimitri’s shoulders. “Wh-what else… do you need me to…?”

“I need…” Dimitri swallows. “Show me you want _me_ , Claude.”

He finds he cannot properly articulate what he wants, caught between his desires and the lingering fears of the future. He wants to know — needs to know — that he exists somewhere outside his title. That if he were born a pauper without an ounce of power to his name, he might have still found himself here, in his bed with Claude von Riegan beneath him. Praising him. Loving him. 

The fact that Claude seems to understand is a miracle, brought on by their closeness. 

“You’re Dima,” he says, still shuddering from the way Dimitri is gripping him. “My beautiful, strong, loving Dima.” He runs his fingers through Dimitri’s hair, pulls him down to leave feverish kisses on his forehead, under his eyes. “ _Mine_.”

The effect that word has on Dimitri is near instantaneous, as he groans, grinding against Claude’s abdomen. He’s still almost entirely clothed, as is Claude — but there is no time to get naked so he might have his fill of Claude, not right now when he’s so close to coming. And so he reaches, taking both their cocks in one hand, loving the way Claude moans in response. 

“And you’re mine,” he whispers, gripping them both tightly, unable to bite back the moan that arises from inside him. Claude’s heat, his cock pulsating in time with Dimitri’s… It’s fascinating. Something Dimitri would want to spend a good few hours exploring, were he not already an inch from coming. Beneath him, Claude shifts his hips, and the friction makes Dimitri see stars, crying aloud. “Claude—”

“Yes,” Claude gasps, and the simple fact that he’s still capable of saying anything at all makes Dimitri tighten his grip, his own hips starting to move faster, harder, moving Claude further up the mattress.

“I told you already,” he grunts as he fucks into his hand, rubbing against Claude’s erection with every thrust, hearing Claude cry out with pure abandon. “ _Say my name._ ”

“Dima,” Claude whimpers, throwing both his arms around Dimitri’s shoulders. “Dima, Dima, Di—!”

Dimitri isn’t sure which of them comes first, only that something wet and warm fills his hand as Claude’s blunt fingernails dig into his back, piercing even through the thin linen of his shirt. His name is still on Claude’s lips, Claude’s hips moving mindlessly beneath him as come drips from Dimitri’s fist onto Claude’s stomach.

They stay pressed together like that for some time, both of them breathing heavily, Dimitri bowing so his forehead is pressed against Claude’s.

“Heh…” Claude is the first one to speak, once both of them have caught their breath. He is smiling against Dimitri’s mouth, warm and true. “Looks like someone’s got a bit of a name kink.”

Dimitri swallows, his eyes still shut as the endorphins slowly drain away.

“No one has called me ‘Dima’ in years,” he finally says. He swallows again. “It… in Faerghus, it’s an indicator of closeness, to call someone by their diminutive. A shorter version of their given name. Yet most of my housemates persist in using my royal title, never mind my first name.”

Claude makes a sympathetic noise in his throat. “I’ve noticed that. I didn’t realize it bothered you so much.”

Dimitri opens his eyes, forehead still pressed against Claude’s. He sees green eyes looking back at him, a softness at their edges. 

“It does not, normally,” he admits. “Grown men and women have called me ‘Your Highness’ since I was in swaddling clothes. I am used to it, and yet…”

“But it still hurts.” He feels Claude’s fingers at the nape of his neck, blunt nails gently scratching the fine hairs there. “Have you tried talking to them? Your friends, I mean?”

Dimitri shakes his head.

“It makes little difference.” Saying it aloud causes its own kind of hurt. “I can ask all I like — and I have — but they refuse, or find it too difficult to keep up the habit.”

He shifts slightly so he can rest his head on Claude’s shoulder, Claude’s arms wrapping around him. 

“I will be king in three months’ time.” It’s even more surreal to say it aloud, even with only Claude to hear “The distance between us will only grow once I have been crowned. They feel they can never be on even footing with me — and,” he admits with only slight bitterness, “I suppose, in truth, there are few that are.”

A thoughtful silence falls, Claude still holding onto him. Then, abruptly, Claude shifts so that he is the one lying on top, still holding Dimitri in his arms.

“I am,” he says, and rests his chin on Dimitri’s chest, looking at him intently. “Aren’t I?”

“You…” Dimitri considers it briefly. He supposes that of all the people in Fodlan, Claude is one of only two who might understand what he feels. Who might be able to stand with him, shoulder to shoulder, without feeling as though he must first swear Dimitri fealty.

“Yes,” he says, and lets himself smile. Claude folds his arms under his chin, grinning down at him. 

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” he says slowly, intoning Dimitri’s full name. “Crown Prince of Faerghus, Scion of Loog, His Most Holy Princeliness, Vanquisher of This Ass. And…” He grins, laying his head on his arms. “My Dima. I love you.”

Dimitri can’t help but melt at that. It’s not rare for Claude to express affection — he seems to understand instinctively, that Dimitri needs to have love shown through actions rather than couched in poetics. Casual touches, light kisses, acts of service… this is how Dimitri best understands the love Claude feels for him. But hearing Claude’s love spoken aloud is powerful, too. Perhaps even more powerful for Claude, first and foremost a man of words, than for Dimitri himself. 

He wraps his arms around Claude’s middle, pressing a kiss to his cheek as Claude snuggles into him. 

“And I, you,” he whispers in Claude’s ear. He runs a hand down Claude’s back, the calluses on his hands catching the fabric of Claude’s tunic. He suddenly wishes they’d taken the time to remove their clothing properly, that he might feel Claude’s skin against his now. “I… think that I always shall.”

He cannot promise Claude his life forever. He cannot even promise him that they will still have what they have now, once Dimitri has become king. But though their future is an uncertain one, Dimitri’s feelings have never been. He will not lose the chance to express them to Claude, while he still has the ability. 

Claude grins at him, leaning over Dimitri to kiss him lazily, his arms on either side of Dimitri’s head.

“Well then.” He pulls back, winking. “It’s still your birthday, right? We’d better make the most of it.”

Dimitri cannot help the laugh that escapes him, nor his eagerness and pleasure as he pulls Claude ever closer to him, protecting his sole oasis against the worries of the real world. 

“We shall.”


End file.
